


Creatures of Habit

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man's disease is his personal property.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creatures of Habit

Listen: Gene wasn't the sort of bloke who gave a toss about the decor. He didn't go in for chintz bedspreads and matching drapes. He paid no mind to carpet pile.

But for the third straight morning, he'd woken up on Sam's cot, a kink in his neck and a niggle in his side where a dislodged spring had prodded him through the night -- woken first without opening his eyes, and then just breathed in the scent of dust and beer and sex and above all, _Sam_ \-- when he realized that the Arms-induced headache he'd gone to sleep with had metamorphosed into a regular sort of headache, all sledgehammer and no sympathy. What's more, it had seeped through his veins to drown every extremity, down and down until he was not so much a bloke as a putrid mass of raw ache. And you know, damned if said putrid mass didn't peg the wallpaper as the most offensive sight in all creation.

Gene struggled to shield his face with the crook of his elbow, but the damage was done. His eyes were bleeding. He was sure of it.

"Tyler," he wheezed. "Tyler, by god, I'll have your hide."

Sam's voice piped from the bathroom, "Shit, Gene. You sound awful. Hope I didn't work you too hard," before Sam himself followed behind, looking a fair shake more impertinent than was strictly necessary. He was fresh from the shower, ruddy and wet; the towel about his waist clung to flesh in all the best ways.

A dry, rattling cough rose from Gene's chest.

That got him. Sam clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. "You're sick," he said.

"Is that an official prognosis, or shall I seek a second opinion?"

"I mean it. There's no way you should go in today."

"'S just one of those momentary lapses."

"Like you begging me to fuck you?"

Gene's mouth twitched. "Don't be a prick."

"Then sit back a moment." Sam's hand was cool on Gene's brow. He worked his fingers over the center, then lightly brushed each temple before tracing up through his hair. "You're burning up."

Gene sniffed. Well, _snuffled_ , but who was keeping score? Certainly not him: he'd be a fool to waste Sam's proximity, and so he traced a hand over the towel and up Sam's inner thigh, then yanked the knot apart, letting it drop by Sam's feet.

And Sam? Sam was already halfway hard.

"Christ," said Gene. "You're _enjoying_ this."

Sam didn't reply. Rather, he leaned forward to press his mouth over Gene's, his hand sliding down to rest on Gene's shoulder. Gene opened his mouth, slipped out his tongue. Sam took the invitation.

But when he pulled away for breath, Gene laughed hoarsely, "Not worried I'm catching?"

Sam had the cheek to pause at that, and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. No, not pause. Stop, fully stop, like it was actually something which warranted a decision. If Gene's muscles hadn't threatened to picket-line, he'd've had a fist in Sam's stomach for his trouble. But then Sam kissed him again, and Gene was left panting, pressed back on the mattress.

"You're taking advantage of my weakened condition."

"Your weakened condition doesn't seem to mind." Sam was on top of him, left knee between Gene's legs, running his hands up and down Gene's trunk before one settled on his hip and the other on his erection. "Well?"

"What?"

"Stay in bed."

"D'you think I'm going somewhere?"

"Not to the station." Sam's fingers ghosted over his balls, stroked for a moment, and then receded. Bloody sadist. "You've gotta rest."

"You're out of your mind."

"It's probably flu. If you're not careful, you'll have half of CID out on sick leave."

"Don't see you complaining," Gene said with as much conviction as he could muster.

Gently, too gently, Sam licked a stripe up from the root of Gene's cock, and pressed a kiss to the tip. Then he rolled off.

"Oi!" Gene heaved himself up with his forearms, wincing as the stitch in his ribs became a hem. "Regular Florence Nightingale, you are."

"And you'd best get a move on, seeing as you're in such a hurry," Sam said. He had already made it across the room to put the kettle on, and mumbled a load of rot about immunizations.

Gene let out a shuddering breath. As if he'd allow himself to be poked for anything less than typhus.


End file.
